


Frank Babysits an Alien

by muskoxen



Series: Aliens in New York [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: AU obviously, Baby Groot, But dark fluff, Canon Divergence – Post–Avengers: Infinity War (Movie), Dodgy New York geography, Fluff, Frank Castle is his own warning, Frank Castle loved being a dad, Kastle adjacent, there’s also a ton of swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 09:40:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14446518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muskoxen/pseuds/muskoxen
Summary: Sequel to “Karen Rescues An Alien.”Frank has trouble saying "no" to Karen Page, which is how he ends up agreeing to take care of a small, barky alien kid in a ravaged city for a day. But how hard can that be?





	Frank Babysits an Alien

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings for: Frank-typical violence and gore, Frank-typical darkness, real-talk about how fucked up Frank's brain is, lewd language, real-talk about how shitty living in a post-disaster city is.
> 
> Also, TW because I barely proofed this. Sorry. I liked it so much I just posted it regardless. There's probably mistakes. Please point them out to me so I can fix them (this is a genuine request, I hate reading typos).
> 
> Also, I have great respect for the National Guard. Frank does, too. He just doesn't like it when they try to flirt with Karen.
> 
> This is a sequel to Karen Rescues an Alien. I'd recommend reading that one first.
> 
> This chapter is not fluffy. You have to wait for Groot for the fluff.

It takes just under five hours between the moment Frank feels the first explosion and the time it takes him to ensure that everyone’s secure.

He’s in Midtown, working on a high rise a hundred feet up and reliving a moment four years ago when the sonic blast hits the job site. It’s solid construction and still in the framing stage, so although the building shudders around him, nothing gets destroyed.

He’s off-site and talking to Curt twenty minutes later.

“Got your bag?” the conversation starts.

“Yep,” replies Curt. “Just topped off the car. Can you get to Kennedy Stadium?”

“Yep,” he says. “Gimme an hour.”

He picks up a bag on the way to the Holland Tunnel, hidden on the roof of a twenty-year-old office building. It’s got the essentials – food, first aid kits, a repossessed H&K sub-machine gun and enough ammo to tide Frank over until he can scavenge something better. The Tunnel is bumper-to-bumper traffic despite the best efforts of the emergency crews, and Frank is weaving between the pissy and panicked drivers before they even register his passing.

Newport’s a shitshow even with all the recent experience New Yorkers have with disasters. Frank sticks to back alleys and footpaths, not keen to get run over by some asshole in a panic. Cell service is down intermittently, but he manages to get through to Lieberman in bursts of connectivity. 

> – _Kids?_

asks Frank of one of Lieberman’s burners.

> – _Picked up. We’re on the way to White Plains and Sarah’s parents. You okay?_
> 
> – _Y_

He finds Curtis idling a beat-up old Tacoma on the NW corner of the Kennedy Stadium. Curt sees him, unlocks the doors with a hand still gripping a 9mm, and Frank gets in. The bag goes behind the front seats. The H&K stays on his lap.

Time’s like these, getting Curt out and safe is Frank’s priority. Curt is family, competent as hell, and he’s a tough son-of-a-bitch, but he’d still have trouble navigating a destroyed city with only one complete leg. The Lieberman family lives in the burbs, and they’re better prepared than 99% of Americans for getting out in a hurry. Karen…

Well, it’s not like she’d leave the city, is it?

Frank takes up the watch as Curt gets them out of the blast radius as quickly and safely as possible. It’s hard not to get distracted by the small craft whipping around the skyscrapers like thermal updrafts are just a children’s story or the bright purple flash that precedes the _BOOM_ that breaks the Tacoma’s back window. Curt had already taped over the windows with heavy-duty plastic sheeting, and the doors’ panes are rolled down. It’s enough that, combined with an open mouth and years surviving IEDs, they’re fine except for a bit of debris.

He does steal Curt’s phone, though, and opens the web browser as Curt threads through the traffic. It latches onto a McDonald’s WiFi that’s slow as molasses, but Curt’s phone still manages to load [twitter.com/theofficialkarenpage](http://twitter.com/theofficialkarenpage).

Right there, front and center, is a banner that says _SAFE_ in green and a tweet that says:

> __ **Karen Page** _, just now_
> 
> _NY Garment District just hit with a huge blast. SHELTER IN PLACE. Reports of gf/violence in subways, UFOs firing laser cannons in air. NYers advised to get to ground floor away from windows. Threat appears to be alien – help your fellow humans. This reporter safe. #NYtakeover2018_

Frank reads the tweet twice, feels the fingers on his right hand convulse. It’s one of the tics leftover from the attack, annoying, persistent, and nothing in comparison to the rest.

He hits the button on the side on the phone, sends it to sleep. Tucks it into the cupholder, resumes watching the City fall to pieces.

Schoonover was a bastard, no question, but his fucked up little man cave is a godsend. It’s not off the grid – it’s right off a two-lane highway for chrissake – but it’s got an arsenal, a generator, easily a hundred gallons of purified water, and an HDTV antenna.

Curt and he settle in silently, offloading the Tacoma of their bags and the cans of gasoline. Curt even took the time to throw the contents of his fridge into a cooler, so Frank inventories the perishables while Curt gets the generator firing.

Forty-five minutes later, the Tacoma is hidden under camo netting and Curt and he are sitting in front of a 36” tv watching live local coverage with loaded handguns holstered on their legs and a teenage wet-dream of a Bergara cradled between the arms and the backs of their camp chairs. It’s a stupid, video-game looking gun but it’s what Schoonover stocked. Beggars can’t be choosers.

At least the fried rice is good. Little egg, little onion, some garlic powder and Curt’s leftover T-Bones have his stomach pleasantly full. Could use fish sauce and some chili, but Curt’s never been one to stock a wide variety of ingredients.

Curt’s thumbing through his phone, calling his guys now that the cell towers are up again. About half pick up. Two are in crisis, and Curt spends a good hour settling them, talking them off the peak of terror and PTSD.

Curt says, “Hold on, Manny. I’ll be right back, but I’ve got to take a piss,” and he mutes the phone call, sets his phone down, and wanders outside.

Frank swipes the cell phone, opens the Internet browser. Breathes in on a count of ten as it loads [twitter.com/theofficialkarenpage](http://twitter.com/theofficialkarenpage). Breathes a sigh of relief at seeing the green _SAFE_ banner.

> **       **Karen Page** _, 34 min. ago_**  
> 
> _2/2 Rpts of friendly spacers. Hostiles look inhuman in appearance BUT alien aid is reported too. NYers advised to shelter in place, offer aid to other humans. Shelter on ground floor, away from windows and glass. KNOW YOUR EXITS. Widespread fires in Gramercy. #NYtakeover2018_

and _:_  

> **       **Karen Page** _, 36 min. ago_**
> 
> _1/2 Natl Guard units now confirmed on Manhattan. Confirmed reports of fighting on subways. AVOID GOING UNDERGROUND. Violence limited to Manhattan atp. Penn Station/MSG completely demolished. Casualties unknown, est to be in 1000s. Confirmed sightings of Avgs. Rprts of Wakanda aid_

Frank hears the nearly silent _thunk_ of Curt’s bum leg and returns the phone to the call screen. Sets it on Curt's chair just before he rounds the threshold. Curt picks up the phone, sits down, continues coaching Ortiz from group. From the level look he shoots Frank, though, he isn’t fooled.

“So,” says Curt after he’s done with Ortiz and sent out an email blast to everyone he wasn’t able to contact. “How’s Karen?”

Frank grunts, grabs the dishes. Heads outside to wash up and walk the perimeter.

 

:::

 

Two days later, Frank’s watching the corpse dogs recover bodies and maybe, _maybe_ save lives from the sixth floor of the Wyndham. The hotel entrances are barricaded, but with about half the windows blown out, it hadn’t been any trouble to get into the building and find a good vantage point.

It’s loud as hell from the heavy equipment, the generators, the shouting, and the barely-choreographed chaos of National Guard, first responders, and construction types scurrying below. He knows from BNN that they’ve got firefighters down there from as far away as Tacoma, Washington, and SouthWest is making special stops around the country and as far down as Mexico City to pick up trained disaster dogs. It’s some real feel-good shit in the midst of total destruction, but it barely registers for him anymore.

The death count has risen, confirmed to over 1,500 dead in the immediate incident. It’s the worst American disaster since 9/11.

Last time something like this happened, Frank Castle enlisted in the United States Marine Corps.

This time, he’s sitting on the sixth floor of a busted up luxury hotel. He’s got an M40A1 he scored off a rabbity Vietnam vet three months ago in a bag at his side. He’s got a vest, two liters of water, a pound of teriyaki jerky and high-powered binoculars.

The binoculars are trained on a thin paper-suited figure holding a notepad in the crook of its arm and a small black recorder in its first. The other hand goes up as if to tuck a hank of hair behind an ear, but stops when it feels the paper hood.

It’s Karen.

She’s talking to some Guard types, interviewing them about the so-called New Incident.

Stupid fucking name.

But she’s safe, working, reporting every morning on the front page of the _New York Bulletin_. She’s some kind of savant, skipping journalism school, taking down crime bosses, helping out fucked up hole-in-their-head jarheads in her spare time.

She’s family. She cared about doing right by Maria and the kids when even he’d given up. She doesn’t pull punches, but shit. She’s not afraid to care either.

She’s also out here, running around in a paper suit with a fucking huge purse slung over her shoulder, interviewing part-time soldiers like there’s not still active fighting going on under her feet.

It makes him furious, but Curtis’ bullshit touchy-feely group therapy has made enough impact in his fucked up brain that he recognizes most of that fury is from fear. Fear that she’s going to get hurt in the crossfire, killed by some alien in the guerrilla-style fighting happening across Manhattan or by some human shitstain taking advantage of the chaos for a little personal gain.

There’s a desk jockey at her elbow, and four guys in full gear ranged around her in a semi-circle. She’s asking them questions, and Frank can see from her body language that she’s being sweet and genuine. Karen’s a complicated lady, and she’s got an iron core, but she starts out most interactions sweet and genuine. It’s only when you dig deep, rile her up, that you see the fire.

Frank takes a deep breath, counting to ten as he watches Karen startle at the blast of an airhorn, dropping her note pad. The one-weekend-a-month reservist leans down and picks it up but doesn’t return it immediately. Instead, Frank watches as this asshole plucks a ballpoint from his BDU shirt pocket and scribble something on the pad before handing it back to Karen.

Frank adjusts the magnification, reads _Niffeneger_ on the name tape. Stores it in his hoarder’s warren of a memory bank. It’s all in there, Frank knows by now. Sometimes he just doesn't know where to look for it.

Karen talks to them for another twenty minutes or so before the desk jockey herds her away and gestures for another paper-suited reporter to take her place. Frank watches Karen watch the workers around her, pulling at the press pass hanging in glaring orange around her neck. She taps the side of her bag, _one, two, three_ , looking back and forth before whipping out her phone and snapping a pic. By now, Frank’s inferred that only press photographers are supposed to take pictures here. Typical Karen Page, walking right over the red lines and bureaucratic tape keeping her from a story.

He watches her as she heads towards the security checkpoint, ready to head back to the _Bulletin_ and start making something readable from the typical whitewashed, PR-approved snippets she gleaned today. Frank stows the binoculars, shoulders his bag, and is in position to pick up her tail ten minutes later.

She never sees him, but then he’s careful.

The walk from Penn Station back into Hell’s Kitchen passes more-or-less uneventfully. Karen’s been careful this week, wearing heavy-soled boots and keeping her head up as she walks. Frank’s pleased with that, not that Karen can’t take care of herself. But the mood in the City has been getting darker, grimmer, more desperate as hours become days and access to the island is still restricted. Frank hasn’t had to bull through any grocery stores – he’s got enough provisions to last him weeks in his shitty little studio – but they pass by two shelters and three churches on the walk back to the _Bulletin_. Every one of them has a line out the door of grim-faced mothers, hard-eyed men, and squalling kiddos.

He hangs back a block-and-a-half, watching the shining Venetian blonde of her hair play peek-a-boo with the other pedestrians. It’s hard to lose her in a crowd, tall as she is. He watches as she enters the office, waits fifteen minutes to be sure she’s staying in, and then circles back to ground zero.

The new ground zero.

Fuck.

He’s passing the 50th Street metro entrance when he hears them.

“Jesus _FUCK_ ,” screams one guy.

“You have to calm down, Isley.”

“Calm down? Are you fucking serious?! Did you see that shit? We’re down there with fucking M16s and those fucking aliens have _LASERS._ ” He screams the last, and then screams again in pain.

“Shut up, Isley. _Shut up shut up shut up,_ ” grunts a third voice accompanied by the unmistakable sound of a man dragging a hurt companion.

Frank backtracks, looks past the granite mouth of the subway entrance, sees some Guard dragging their buddy up the escalator. The biggest guy is dragging the screaming one up the motionless escalator stairs, and Frank realizes the screaming one is keening. One long, high pitched whine after the other. It sets the short hairs at the base of his neck up.

The last guy is walking up the escalator backwards, M16 pointed down the incline into the darkness of the subway station.

“Hey,” says Frank, hands already up. The big guy cusses, drops the injured guy, spins around and swipes his M16 back into his arms.

Sloppy.

“Stay back!” Big Guy orders, and screaming guy is scrabbling at the slick escalator steps, trying to get upright.

“Hey, man. You’re fine. I have some basic combat medic training. I can help.”

“Stay back,” says the Big Guy again. He’s dark like a Pacific Islander, but Frank can see the whites of his eyes from here. These guys are scared spitless, practically shivering out of their brown shitkickers.

“Hey,” says Frank, and eases forward to take a look at the injured guy. He’s clutching at his leg, it’s then that Frank realizes that most of it is gone. There’s a smoking stump ending well above where his knee should be. Pity wells up, unexpected and unwanted.

Fucking group. Fucking peg-legged asshole of a best friend.

“Hey,” he continues, looking up and holding eye contact. He checks the insignia on the guy’s arm, slides his eyes over the name tape. “Hey, Specialist Galeia. My name is Pete Castiglione, and I served in the Marines. You don’t know me, yeah, but I can help, okay? Let me help.”

Galeia stands there, frozen with fear and indecision, the nods. “Okay,” he says and Frank is sliding forward, reaching down, hoisting Isley over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry that makes his knees shriek in the back of his mind. It’s something for later.

Frank takes them out of the Subway station, coaches Galeia to respond to the radio pages his brain is too fucked over to register. The rear guard, Brown, is in slightly better mental fitness. Together, Frank and he get Isley on a bench, stump elevated and tourniquet applied. There’s not a ton of blood, for sure, but the laser blacked up two-three inches of flesh and muscle above the wound. Isley’s probably gonna lose more leg before the week’s out.

“Fuck,” he cries over and over again. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Frank’s got the kid’s head pressed into his leg, lets him cry it out. Kid deserves a lot more tenderness than Frank can offer, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Brown says “Medical’s on their way,” and five minutes later four guys come hoofing it down the road with a stretcher like it’s goddamn Brussels 1940. The City is so fucked up even the medic can’t get their buses to the injured.

Frank pulls Galeia out of the way, shaking the big man until he’s focusing on Frank. He gets him to drink some water, eat a shitty candy bar the medic shoved in his hand.

“Hey, son. Good job. Good job down there. You got Isley out, yeah. But I need you to tell me, tell me about what’s happening, yeah. What’s happening down there?”

So that’s how Frank Castle ends up spending almost a week under New York City, shooting up aliens.

 


End file.
